Chapter One 

Busayo was over it.

Being at this hospital wasn’t something she wanted to do, but the headaches had become unbearable. It was constant, sharp, and impossible to ignore. She had tried every therapy as seen on Instagram and even a few ChatGPT suggestions, but nothing was changing. Sleep refused to come, and when it did, it was shallow, haunted by thoughts that pressed down on her chest.

Lately, she had been asking questions she never thought she would: Why would a good God allow pain and evil in the world?

She’d grown up in a Christian home with regular Sunday services, midweek prayers, cramming memory verses, and yearly rotation of different variations of “Jesus loves you” stickers on the fridge. Believing in God was never up for debate. You confessed, you praised, and you obeyed, that was the rhythm of their lives.

But right now, everything felt hollow.

Because how could a loving Father let another father die like that, suddenly, cruelly and at just fifty-seven?

Her father.

A young, kind, hardworking man who had built everything he could for his children, who had paid for her master’s degree when she didn’t even believe in the purpose of one. And now he was gone, just when she was supposed to start giving back, to let him eat the fruit of his labor.

She was thirty-one, unmarried, and angry at God.

Her father had been her greatest defender. As a teenager, when her body developed faster than everyone else’s, hips, breasts, and curves that made teachers stare too long and classmates whisper, her father had told her, “My daughter, God didn’t overdo it; He perfected you.”

So she had learnt to walk tall, to wear her clothes with quiet confidence. And now, when people whispered that her body looked “surgical,” she didn’t flinch. They didn’t know the Architect.

She hadn’t cried since the funeral. Everyone saw her as “the strong one.” She didn’t dare break in front of her mother or her brothers. Thankfully, her mother had travelled to Canada to stay with her older brother, who just had a baby. So at least Busayo didn’t have to perform strength for anyone.

Now she could finally grieve.

Or at least try.

That was why she was here, at the hospital, searching for something to help her sleep or cry, but the queue had been painfully long, and she had almost turned back twice.

“Number thirty,” a nurse called.

Her number.

Two hours later, she finally walked into the doctor’s office.

He was young, too young. Early twenties, maybe. His skin still looked like it hadn’t seen much sun. A baby doctor, she thought.

Not that she doubted his degree. It just felt strange. All her life, hospitals had meant middle-aged consultants, people whose hair carried wisdom. This one looked like he should still be on an internship.

“Good afternoon, madam,” he said politely, adjusting his glasses. “How are you today?”

“I’m not fine,” Busayo replied flatly.

“Okay,” he said, glancing at her file. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m not sleeping well,” she said. “Headache. Fatigue.”

He nodded, professional. “How long has this been happening?”

“Several weeks.” She hesitated, then sighed. “Since I lost my dad.”

He looked up, eyes softening. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.”

He asked a few more questions, about her diet, caffeine, exercise, stress. Then scribbled on a prescription pad. “You’ll take these vitamins, some painkillers. Try to eat fruits, sleep at regular times, and maybe talk to someone. Grief can… linger.”

That was it.

Three hours of waiting for painkillers and sleep advice.

“Thank you,” she muttered, rising to her feet.

As she walked out, she sighed. “So much for sitting here all day. I could’ve just gone to the pharmacy myself.”

She pressed a hand against her temple, whispering, “God help me. I know You’re real. I just don’t understand You.”

Her thoughts spiralled again, about pain, and about death; about the 21-year-old girl from her university who had died during her service year; and about how the world never seemed fair.

The pharmacy queue felt even longer. Sixteen people ahead. She thought about leaving again.

And then, someone stepped on her foot.

“Ah! Sorry, sorry!” the man said quickly.

Her first instinct was to snap at him. But when she looked up, his face caught her off guard. His apology didn’t sound like it was for stepping on her. It sounded like it was for everything, for her loss, her pain, her exhaustion.

“I’m… sorry,” he said again, softer this time.

And just like that, something broke.

Her throat tightened. Her chest burned. And before she knew it, tears flowed, trembling tears slipped down her cheeks.

The man looked startled, then knelt a little, searching her face. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head, unable to speak.

“No,” she whispered finally.

He nodded slowly, still holding her gaze. He was so familiar, but her brain was too fuzzy to register where she knew him from.

Busayo couldn’t wait for the drugs anymore. She turned and rushed out of the hospital, clutching her bag like something fragile.

Outside, the air was hot. She leaned against her car, exhaled, and whispered again, this time through tears.

“God… help me.”

———————————————————————————————————————

As Busayo drove through Lagos traffic, she knew she couldn’t go home. What was the point? The doctor hadn’t taken her headache seriously enough to sign off on any sick days, and her boss would not look kindly on her staying away from work without a report.

So she drove back to the office.

Her company shared a building in Victoria Island with three others. The parking lot was half full, and as she stepped out of her car, she saw Kelechi walking out of the building, his sleeves rolled up, car keys in hand, probably heading out for lunch.

Busayo sighed. She wished she had waited a few more minutes before getting down.

Kelechi was the managing director of the fintech company upstairs. Everyone knew him. He was one of those tech bros who somehow managed to be both successful and unapologetically Christian, a rare combination these days. And yes, he had taken a liking to her.

She had liked him back.

But God had other ideas.

She had prayed about it, endlessly, and every time, the Holy Spirit whispered, No.

At thirty-one, Busayo was still a virgin. Not for lack of temptation, but for lack of peace. Men came and went, many dazzled by her beauty and body size, few interested in her soul. Her curves drew attention she never asked for, and her faith kept her from acting on feelings she sometimes wished she could entertain.

So when Kelechi appeared, a good man, stable, kind, and prayerful, she thought, finally.

But no. The gentle warning in her spirit never left.

‘You take my dad at fifty-seven,’ she thought bitterly, ‘and then say no to the one man I want? How does that make sense, God?’

“Busayo!”

She froze. Kelechi was closer now, smiling.

“You’re just going to walk past me?” he said, half teasing. “Even if you said no, we’re still friends, right?”

She forced a smile. “I’m sorry, Kelechi. I’m just… not feeling fine.”

His smile faded into concern. “Are you okay? You look pale. You should see a doctor.”

“I have,” she said. “Just coming from one. They didn’t think it was serious.”

“Have you eaten?”

She hesitated. “No.”

“Then come with me,” he said instantly. “There’s this restaurant down the road, they serve the meanest steak. My treat.”

Busayo wanted to go desperately. To sit across from him, talk, laugh, and forget for one hour that life hurt, but she knew how this story would end, more feelings, more confusion, more silence from heaven.

“I have work,” she said quietly. “I’ll see you later.”

Before he could reply, she walked off, her heels clicking softly against the tiled floor.

The receptionist greeted her as she entered the lobby. Busayo murmured a reply and stepped into the elevator. Alone at last, she leaned back against her reflection, pressing a hand to her chest.

“God,” she whispered, “Do you really love me?”

A quiet stillness filled the elevator. Then, a knowing rose gently in her spirit, soft, like the echo of a verse she once memorised:

My grace is sufficient for you.

Tears pricked her eyes. “Then why…” she whispered again, “do you let bad things happen? Why can’t I have this man I like, who likes me back? Are you good, or do you just… do what you like?”

No voice answered this time. Only that stillness, the kind that feels like God is near even when silent.

Rest in Me.

She shook her head, wiping her face quickly as the elevator doors slid open. Just this morning, she couldn’t cry, now it seems as though the tears won’t stop falling.

Her office smelt like coffee and air conditioning. She walked to her desk, planning to tell her boss she needed to close early, but one glance at her inbox killed the thought.

So much work.

So many claims to process.

She sighed and sank into her chair, whispering to no one in particular.

“Alright then, Lord. Let’s survive today.”

———————————————————————————————————————

Michael.

He liked to think of himself that way. Michael. Just Michael.

But almost everyone called him Apostle now. They had said it so often that sometimes, he almost forgot his real name.

Earlier that day, he had been to the hospital to visit Mama Adesina, the 89-year-old widow of his late mentor, Reverend Adesina, founder of The Apostolic Evangelical Mission.

She had been permanently admitted for age-related care, and Michael made it a point of duty to visit her twice a month. The amount of wisdom he gleaned from her during those visits was indescribable.

He had almost missed today’s appointment because of a ministration at The Covenant Nation that morning, which ran longer than planned. So he rushed straight from there to the hospital, tired but determined.

And that was when he saw her.

The woman in the pharmacy queue.

He hadn’t even caught her name, but the look in her eyes stayed with him.

Pain. Deep pain. The kind that went beyond grief and touched the soul.

He was standing outside Mama Adesina’s room now, hand on the door handle, but his heart was back in that waiting area.

He should have spoken to her.

All these years of ministry had made him both close to people and distant from them. Close enough to carry their burdens, distant enough not to get personally involved. In his early days as a young minister, wounded hearts were his specialty. But as the ministry grew, branches across Enugu, Lagos, and Port Harcourt, so did the protocols.

He couldn’t move freely anymore. Couldn’t just walk up to a stranger and say, “The Lord sees you.”

But this one, this woman, he knew in his spirit that he had missed a moment.

When he finally opened the door, Mama Adesina was awake.

“Apostle!” she said with a weak smile. “You’re here. I don’t know why they won’t discharge me from this hospital. I think they’re enjoying our money too much.”

Michael smiled and bent slightly. “At least they’re taking care of you, Mama.”

“Yes o,” she chuckled. “They even let me watch TV now. Imagine, at my age!”

He laughed softly. “Fantastic.”

Then she peered at him closely. “Apostle, something is wrong with you.”

He blinked. “No, Mama. I’m fine.”

She shook her head. “No, you’re not. Your eyes are carrying someone else’s sorrow.”

He hesitated. “I… stumbled on a woman earlier. She seemed broken, I am not even sure how to describe her. I should have spoken to her. But I didn’t. And now, I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Mama nodded slowly. “Then pray. Pray for her. That’s more important than your words. If God speaks to her, she’ll find comfort. Shall we pray for her together?”

Michael exhaled deeply, humbled. “Yes, Mama.”

She reached out her wrinkled hand, and he took it.

They began to pray.

At first, it was quiet, measured words, and soft sighs. Then the air in the room grew thick with presence. Mama began to speak in tongues, her frail body trembling as tears ran down her cheeks.

“If this woman must meet him again, Lord,” Mama prayed aloud, “then orchestrate it. If not, send her help. But let her know You see her. Let her know You are near.”

They prayed for almost an hour. When Michael finally opened his eyes and checked his watch, he blinked in disbelief. “Mama, we’ve been praying for over an hour.”

Mama smiled. “Ah. It means we prayed the heart of God. This is beyond us.”

He nodded slowly. “And I came here to pray with you, to encourage you.”

She chuckled. “Encourage me? My son, I am 89. My time here is almost done. I’m only waiting for God’s signal to come home to Him and my husband. But if our prayer today brought peace to another soul, then my time is still useful.”

Michael smiled, though a hint of sadness crossed his eyes. “Thank you, Mama.”

“Now, about the other issue,” she said, suddenly stern. “It is not good for a man to be alone.”

He laughed nervously. “Mama…”

“I’m serious, Apostle,” she said, wagging a frail finger. “I want to bless you and your wife before I go.”

“Mama, you’re not going anywhere,” he teased. “You’re still very young. Look at you, fresh!”

She rolled her eyes. “Hmm. The earlier you marry, the better. Maybe I’ll even carry your child.”

He chuckled. “Mama, God hasn’t said anything. I can’t move before Him.”

She tilted her head. “Are you sure you’re even praying about it? You’re so deep in church planting, I saw you on TV last week, another branch in Enugu, one in Lekki, one in Warri. You’re busy for God but not talking to Him about yourself.”

Michael smiled faintly. “You may be right. The harvest is plenty, Mama. The labourers are few.”

“Still,” she said softly, “a wife is comfort to the soul. And temptation is a heavy burden for a fine, young man of thirty-seven.”

He smiled, looking away. “In His time, Mama. God will make all things work together for my good.”

She grinned. “Very wise, Apostle.”

His phone rang.

Mama laughed. “Go on, go. They need you again.”

He stood, kissed her hand gently, and said, “Thank you, Mama.”

As he left the room, the echo of her prayer followed him down the corridor:

“If it means they must meet again, Lord, then orchestrate it…”

Michael had always told his protocol officers to ease up whenever he came to the hospital.

He wanted to slip in quietly, visit Mama Adesina, and slip out again.

So he dressed down, face cap, sunglasses, and a simple t-shirt. The casual disguise helped him blend in.

Still, his protocol men were scattered across the hospital, standing near the corridors, the reception, the parking lot, like undercover sentinels.

Anyone who clocked it, might think the governor was visiting.

He hated it.

He had argued about it several times. “God is my protection,” he always told the board. But they never listened.

With his Monthly Prayer Service now one of the most-watched prayer broadcasts on YouTube, his popularity had grown at an alarming rate. The church board said it was too risky for him to move around without protection. “You could be mobbed,” they said.

So he let them have their way.

Now, as he walked out of the hospital, the men were already aligning, some in front, some behind. By the time he got to his SUV, the two-vehicle convoy was waiting, engines running.

He climbed into the back seat. The air conditioning hummed softly. His phone vibrated. Cathy, his assistant, turned to him from the front passenger seat.

“Sir, we just got a call from Apostle Oromade’s office. They’re hoping you can come to London a day earlier than planned.”

Michael sighed. “Ah… I was really hoping to use that day to rest. Just one quiet day before the conference.”

Cathy glanced at him through the mirror. “They said there’s a pre-conference event. They were hoping you’d take a session there too.”

He rubbed his forehead. “I can’t say no to Apostle Oromade. He’s senior to me. But I truly needed that rest.”

“I could tell them you’re unavailable, sir,” Cathy offered gently.

He shook his head. “No, they’ll know I’m already in London. It’ll look wrong. Just tell them I’ll be there… by the grace of God.”

Cathy sighed softly. “Apostle, you need to rest. Even God rested on the seventh day.”

Michael smiled faintly. “He did. I’ll rest on the plane.”

She hesitated. “Sir, just to confirm, will you still be preaching at the new branch in Jakande this Sunday?”

“Yes,” he said.

“That means you’ll have to handle all three services there.”

“I’ll manage it,” he said. “Pastor Simeon will preach in Ikeja next week while I’m away.”

Cathy typed a note on her tablet. “Alright, sir. I’ll tell the admin to start printing flyers.”

“Please, Cathy,” Michael said quietly. “No pictures this time. My name is enough.”

She turned around in surprise. “But, Apostle, when we put your photo, people come from other churches. Attendance triples!”

Michael smiled, tired. “I’m getting weary of seeing my face everywhere, billboards, social media, flyers. Let’s just put the name. The glory belongs to the Lord.”

“Well noted, sir,” she said softly.

Michael leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes.

Cathy scrolled through her phone. “Sunday will be amazing at the new church,” she said with quiet excitement. “I can feel it. God is going to surprise us.”

Michael smiled faintly. “I pray He does. I pray He moves… mightily.”

He looked out the window. The city was beginning to shut down for the day, schools had closed, offices were shutting down. His convoy merged into traffic. Usually, whenever there was traffic, he made use of the time to make necessary plans and arrangements, but today his mind wasn’t on London, or Jakande, or even the growing ministry.

It was still on that woman.

The one in the pharmacy line, with grief in her eyes. 

He closed his eyes again, whispering under his breath.

“Lord, if You want our paths to cross again… make it so.”

 

Chapter Two

Busayo had always been a coffee person.

Every morning before work, it was coffee, strong, dark, and slightly sweet. The smell alone used to wake her up before the caffeine even kicked in.

But ever since the sleeplessness started, coffee had become her enemy.

Caffeine made the headaches worse, and her body refused to cooperate.

So now, she took tea.

They said chamomile tea with honey could help one sleep. She tried it. Every night. Every single night.

But it didn’t help.

Nothing did.

So one more thing in her life was dead, at least for now, her love for coffee, her ability to sleep, and maybe, if she was being honest, her excitement for life.

Sunday came, three days after the hospital visit.

The drugs had been delivered to her house by courier, which was the only thing she was grateful for, but they were supplements, not sedatives. Maybe they were fixing something inside her body, but sleep was still far away.

She was weary. Her head throbbed.

Busayo sat in front of the television in the shared living room she used with her housemate, Grace.

Sharing apartments was common on the Island in Lagos, each person with their own bedroom and bathroom, but a shared kitchen and living area.

The TV was hers though. Grace barely touched it.

She turned it on, ready to stream Sunday service.

Going to church had become harder since her dad died.

It wasn’t because people asked how she was doing, it was because they didn’t.

Everyone had gone back to normal, smiling, posting pictures, living.

Meanwhile, she was stuck in the ache of a world that didn’t pause for her grief.

“Busayo,” Grace’s voice came from behind her. “You’re not going to church?”

Busayo turned. “I’m streaming online today.”

Grace raised an eyebrow. “That is becoming a pattern. Do you want to become one of those people who only do online church now?”

Busayo gave a weak smile. “Grace, please. I’m just tired.”

Grace sighed and sat beside her. “Okay, sorry. You just… look like you need the service more than the service needs you.”

Busayo chuckled softly. “Thanks for that.”

Grace laughed, then tilted her head. “Come with me then. Let’s go together. I promise I’ll drive.”

“To Ikeja? God forbid,” Busayo said, half-laughing.

Grace shook her head. “I’m not in the Ikeja branch anymore. My assignment there is over. I’m now serving at the new branch in Jakande. I’m one of the ministers they transferred there.”

“Wow, congratulations!” Busayo said, genuinely surprised.

“Thank you! So you see, it’s not far. Just come with me. Our General Overseer is coming today.”

Busayo frowned slightly. “The Apostle?”

Grace grinned. “Yes, Apostle Michael himself.”

Busayo hesitated. “There’s no need, jor. I’m fine watching online.”

“Busayo, please,” Grace said softly. “You don’t go anywhere. You just work, come home, and sleep. This might be good for you.”

Busayo sighed, staring at the tea cup beside her. “Alright. I’ll come.”

Grace smiled wide. “Perfect. I’ll wait for you. Go and get ready.”

Busayo nodded and dragged herself to her room.

She hadn’t expected to say yes, and now she had to worry about what to wear. Her wardrobe felt dull lately, full of work clothes and lifeless colours.

Almost as if in answer, a green dress caught her eye.

Green.

Her father’s colour. He never said it, but it was obvious, their house had been painted green, their gate green, even the roof. Maybe it was his way of leaving a mark on everything he loved.

Wearing green made her feel close to him.

She sighed. “Alright, Dad,” she whispered, pulling the dress off the hanger. “Let’s go to church.”

She showered, dressed, and looked at herself in the mirror. Not bad. But the sadness in her eyes was still there.

“Oh Lord,” she whispered, “Why am I letting her drag me to this church?”

Maybe because I want you there.

She shook her head quickly, grabbed her purse, and stepped out.

Grace was waiting by the door, bright and radiant in a white dress. She hugged Busayo tightly. “Ah! You look beautiful. I knew you’d come around.”

Busayo smiled weakly. “You always win.”

“I always pray, and what I am hearing in my spirit is that God wants you back in church.” Grace said with a grin, unlocking the car.

They both got in, Grace at the wheel, Busayo staring out the window.

As the car rolled down the quiet Sunday streets, neither of them had any idea that this short drive, this reluctant trip to church, was the beginning of everything.

 

——————————————————————————————————————

It was as though a carnival was about to happen.

As soon as they drove into the church compound, colours met them everywhere, banners, flags, posters fluttering in the breeze:

“Apostle is coming.”

“Join us for a supernatural Sunday.”

Busayo’s jaw dropped slightly. “Wow,” she whispered.

Grace smiled, eyes bright. “You just need to listen to him and you’ll understand why. He’s so down to earth. I’m sure he doesn’t even like all this noise. He’d rather just walk in quietly and leave quietly.”

Busayo smiled faintly. “Then he’s my kind of person.”

They found seats in the fourth row, close enough to see the pulpit clearly. Worship songs floated through the air as people settled in. She noticed a few murmurs around her, subtle whispers she couldn’t ignore.

“Someone said the Apostle isn’t coming again…”

“I heard he’s at Lekki… maybe he’s sending another pastor…”

Busayo sighed and turned her focus forward.

She whispered, “I didn’t come here for an Apostle. I came to meet You, Lord.”

The choir began to sing.

It was Dunsin Oyekan’s “Who Is Like You O Lord.”

Who is like You, O Lord?

Who is like You?

The weight of who You are,

No one can carry…

Busayo felt something stir inside her.

It was as though a hand rested softly on her shoulders, gentle, heavy, divine. Tears welled up in her eyes, and before she knew it, they began to roll down freely.

She sang, voice trembling, heart breaking open.

When the song ended, she stayed in that moment, quiet but undone.

Announcements followed, then offering. But the whispers returned.

“I don’t think Apostle is coming.”

“He hasn’t posted anything about this branch today.”

“Maybe he sent another minister.”

Then a man climbed the stage, microphone in hand. “Praise the Lord!” he shouted.

“Hallelujah!” the crowd thundered back.

“I know you were not expecting to see me,” he said with a smile. “You were expecting Apostle, right?”

“Yes!” the congregation roared.

The man laughed. “Well, I have good news for you. Apostle is on his way. He had to stop briefly at the Lekki church, but he’ll be here soon. In the meantime, the choir will lead us again into worship.”

Cheers filled the room. The drums began again, this time slower, deeper, a Yoruba thanksgiving medley.

It was Nathaniel Bassey’s “E Se, E Se, E Se Oluwa…”

A song of gratitude.

A song her father had loved.

He had sung that same song during his illness with his voice weak, as his body failed, yet he was full of thanks.

Busayo froze. Her chest tightened. Thank You? she thought bitterly. Thank You for what? For taking him? For leaving us like this?

The music grew louder, but the sound inside her grew quieter, just pain and disbelief.

She looked around for Grace but couldn’t find her. The walls felt like they were closing in.

She picked up her bag and stood.

She couldn’t do this.

Not today.

The church was close enough to home. She could walk if she had to. Anything to escape this weight.

As she reached the entrance, the doors opened, and she stopped.

A small convoy had just arrived. Men in suits stepped out first, then him.

The Apostle.

Michael.

He walked briskly, followed by a few aides. But as he passed, he turned suddenly, almost as if drawn by an unseen hand. His eyes met hers.

And in that moment, recognition flickered.

“I know you,” he said quietly.

Busayo blinked. “Good morning, sir.”

“Were you at Ladros Hospital on Thursday?”

Her breath caught. “Yes… yes, sir.”

He nodded slowly. “I stepped on you.”

Busayo gasped softly. “Oh my God, I didn’t even realise it was you, sir!”

“It was me,” he said, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. “Where are you going?”

“I, uh, I’m not feeling well,” she stammered. “I was heading home.”

“Do you mind if I pray with you?” he asked.

Before she could answer, he took her hand, bowed his head, and prayed softly. His voice was steady, calm, full of authority but tender with compassion.

“It is well with you.

May the Spirit of the Lord comfort you,

And may His healing rest upon your body and soul.”

When he finished, she whispered, “Amen.”

By now, a few pastors had come to usher him inside. She tried to step away, but he didn’t release her hand immediately.

Instead, he reached into his pocket, brought out a small card, and handed it to her.

“Call me after the service,” he said quietly. “If you don’t mind.”

She nodded, stunned. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

He smiled once more and turned toward the church.

As he walked in, the building erupted in cheers and chants, “Apostle! Apostle!”, the crowd rising to their feet in excitement.

Busayo stood at the doorway, watching.

The sound echoed behind her, applause, music, joy, everything she used to feel but didn’t anymore.

She looked down at the card in her hand.

Her name trembled as she whispered, “Apostle Michael?”

She tucked the card into her purse and stepped outside.

The afternoon sun hit her face as she whispered to herself, almost in disbelief,

“Am I so dead in the spirit that I didn’t even know… who I just met?”

———————————————————————————————————————

Hours later, Michael was still feeling the weight of the service.

Planting churches had become like breathing to him, each one a seed in God’s garden, each congregation another chance to see grace multiply. It wasn’t work. It was his purpose in action.

Today’s dedication had been particularly powerful. The Spirit had moved tangibly through the crowd.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t linger long after. His flight to London was in a few hours. But he had stopped briefly at the green room, partly out of courtesy. The organising team had gone to great lengths to prepare a small hospitality spread, and he didn’t want to leave without honoring their effort.

He picked up a few slices of fruit, smiled politely at the volunteers, and thanked them for their service.

Yet, even as they chatted, his mind wasn’t there.

His message that morning had been “Christ Has Paid It All.”

He had preached with passion, conviction, and tenderness. But behind his sermon, his mind kept drifting, to the woman at the entrance.

The one who left before the service began.

The one who carried something heavy in her eyes.

He had even adjusted his closing remarks because of her, leading a prayer he hadn’t planned:

“If you’re brokenhearted, if your spirit is weary, if you’ve been asking God ‘why,’ come forward.”

To his quiet shock, nearly a quarter of the church had come out. Men, women, and even teenagers.

He prayed for them one by one, an ache growing in his heart. So many were wounded. So many were pretending to be fine.

And even as he drove away from the church, that ache didn’t leave.

He leaned back in his seat, staring out the window as the convoy made its way toward the airport.

“Lord,” he whispered, “heal them. Heal the confused, the weary, the forgotten. Heal the ones who smile but bleed in silence.”

He closed his eyes briefly, and the image of Busayo’s face came again, the surprise in her eyes, the way she trembled when he prayed.

He exhaled.

He should have asked for her number.

Instead, he had given her his card, trusting she would call.

But what if she didn’t?

Something about her lingered in his spirit. She wasn’t just another person in need of prayer; she felt like an assignment.

He sighed, then smiled faintly to himself. Lord, You know best. If You want that connection again, You’ll orchestrate it.

The car turned into the airport terminal. His assistant, Cathy, was already waiting by the gate with his boarding documents.

“Sir, you have a short layover before London,” she said.

Michael nodded, rubbing his temples. His body was tired. Every bone in him ached for rest.

“I’ll rest on the plane,” he said quietly.

As they walked toward the lounge, he muttered under his breath, a prayer that carried both purpose and weariness.

“Father, I commit this London mission into Your hands.

Some who will attend are chasing dreams,

Some are carrying crosses,

Some are leaving everything behind just to follow Your call.

Honour their faith.

Let Your work prosper.”

He paused, lowering his voice.

“And for Your daughter, Lord, the one You’ve placed on my mind…

Please, help her.

Heal her body.

Mend her spirit.

Let her find You again.”

He whispered the final ‘Amen’ as they entered the lounge.

Outside, planes roared overhead. He exhaled deeply, feeling the exhaustion of both flesh and spirit.

“Thank You, Jesus,” he murmured. “For paying it all.”

———————————————————————————————————————

Busayo stirred at the sound of her name.

“Busayo!”

Her eyelids fluttered open. Gloria was standing by the door, half annoyed, half relieved.

“Oh my God,” Busayo mumbled, sitting up slowly. “I dozed off. I was streaming service.”

Gloria folded her arms. “It’s somehow that you left church without even telling me. I was worried! I looked for you everywhere.”

Busayo rubbed her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I just suddenly felt this huge burden on my chest, and I couldn’t breathe. I had to leave.” She paused, then added softly, “Actually, I stumbled on the Apostle on my way out.”

Gloria blinked. “Wait, what? You saw Apostle Michael?”

Busayo nodded. “Coincidentally, I met him in the hospital last week. I didn’t even know it was him until today. He gave me his card, told me to call him.”

Gloria’s eyes widened. The irritation vanished. She dropped her bag and sat on Busayo’s bed immediately. “He gave you his card? As in, Apostle Michael? Himself?”

Busayo chuckled. “Even me, I was surprised. I just collected it. It’s not like I plan to call him though.”

“Of course you’ll call him,” Gloria said sharply. “At least to thank him.”

Busayo sighed. “You know I’m not even your church member. It’s weird. I’m sure he just said it out of courtesy because I told him I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Courtesy or no courtesy,” Gloria said, wagging a finger, “you will call him.”

Busayo smiled faintly. “See, I’m just grateful. Do you know that I slept? Like, proper sleep. As soon as I got home, after he prayed for me, I slept. And it wasn’t a troubled sleep. I slept peacefully for the first time in weeks.”

Gloria gasped. “Serious?”

“I’m telling you,” Busayo said, stretching. “I’ve been asleep for three hours. If you hadn’t come, I’d still be sleeping. So honestly, that’s enough from God to me this period.”

Gloria shook her head. “Apostle Michael gave you his card, told you to call him, and you’re here talking about sleep? Please make it make sense.”

Busayo laughed. “Okay, fine. I’ll send him a message.”

“Send it now.”

“I’ll send it later.”

“No, now.”

Busayo rolled her eyes, reached for her phone, and picked up the small card from her bedside table. She saved the number on WhatsApp, hesitated for a moment, then typed:

Good afternoon, Apostle.

Thank you so much for seeing me earlier today and for the other day as well. Every encounter with you has been a blessing.

Thank you for taking out time to speak to me.

God bless you.

She read it out loud. “There. Sent.”

Gloria leaned over. “Eh-eh! You didn’t add ‘sir.’ Add ‘sir.’”

Busayo laughed. “I’m not adding anything again. This one is enough. Which one is ‘sir sir sir’? What happened?”

Gloria burst into laughter. “You’re not serious.”

Busayo smiled, shaking her head. “Besides, he probably won’t even reply. Someone like him must get thousands of messages every day.”

Gloria shrugged. “Hmm, true. But if he doesn’t reply, you’ll call him again on Monday. Keep calling, oh. This is Apostle Michael we’re talking about. Better collect your blessing from God.”

Busayo laughed softly. “Blessing from God? If that blessing exists, I pray it finds me.”

Gloria smiled. “Don’t lose faith, Busayo.”

Busayo’s voice dropped, quiet and honest. “I don’t know. I’m just… tired.”

Gloria squeezed her hand. “It is well with your soul.”

“Amen.”

Busayo smiled faintly, walking her to the door. “Now please, let me go back to sleep before the miracle wears off.”

Gloria laughed, stepping out. “Sleep, Apostle’s favourite daughter. Sleep well.”

Busayo closed the door behind her, leaned on it for a moment, and smiled to herself.

Her phone buzzed softly.

She froze.

A new WhatsApp message.

From Apostle Michael.

———————————————————————————————————————

Whoosh! What a way to end an episode. Did you enjoy reading the first episode of “Cheer Up”? And could you relate to Busayo’s struggles? It’s normal to feel that God is far when we go through tough situations, but the truth is, He is not.

As we anticipate episode 2 tomorrow, I’ll leave you with Apostle Micheal’s prayer:

“Lord,” he whispered, “heal them. Heal the confused, the weary, the forgotten. Heal the ones who smile but bleed in silence.”

See you tomorrow!

• Editor’s Comment